A Real Woman
by Isahunter
Summary: Mulder ponders about the perfect woman


A Real Woman, by Isahunter TITLE: A Real Woman (1/1)  
AUTHOR: Isahunter (Isahunter@aol.com)  
RATING: R  
CATEGORY: V, MSR  
SPOILERS: (Never Again, Small Potatoes) Up to Triangle, S6  
ARCHIVE: Yes, with my name and addy attached  
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!  
DISCLAIMER: These characters aren't mine. They belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox. I'm making no money on this (damn!) and it is only written out of respect.  
SUMMARY: Mulder reflects on his partnership with Scully.  
NOTE: This is the sequel to "A Real Man." It can, however, stand on it's own. Additional comments at the end.  


For Diadem. And for Heather Scotland, who asked.

* * *

I want a real woman.

I don't mean some shop-aholic, make-up caked, hair-teasing bimbo. I want a real woman. I want a woman whose eyes are registered as lethal weapons with the FBI. I want a woman who can make the most sensible of business suits look as sexy as the skimpiest of lingerie. I want a woman who, with one look, can make me feel like the most eager of horny adolescents...or can shame me into pouting like an unrepentant little boy. I want the woman who's looking at me now.

As she sits down in the window seat of the 747, fidgeting with the golden cross around her neck, I know she has no idea just what a great view I have standing above her. The collar of her suit jacket has gaped open lazily, revealing a more than ample amount of cleavage over her silk shirt. The slithery fabric slides back and forth with every breath she takes, caressing her in ways I can only dream of. I suck in a shuddering breath, my hands fumbling to stow our belongings and shut the compartment without smashing my own fingers. The crimson silk and creamy wool of her suit make her skin glow like the inside of a sea shell. She looks soft, and firm, and about as plump as a ripe peach. It is all I can do to tear my gaze away.

As I sit down next to her, she crosses her legs...her shoe dangling helplessly from her toes, barely hanging on, much like my own sanity. Her slender ankle is just inches from my shin, and if I concentrate hard enough, maybe I can will her into tracing that foot up and down the length of my calf.

I want a real woman.

I want a woman who can make the most boring of medical terms sound like the most erotic of confessions. I want a woman whose smiles and giggles are so rare and beautiful, I'd turn myself inside out just to cause one. I want a woman who can hold my rapt attention with barely a word spoken, whose brilliant mind has me so wrapped up in knots that I can't sleep at night until I've heard the sound of her voice. I want a woman who can make science sound like poetry, and who can turn an argument into the most passionate of mental stimuli.

And she wonders why I tease her with outlandish conjectures.

I want a woman who can hold her own, run with the boys, and still make me feel like the manliest of men at the end of the day. A woman who matches me in wit and humor, who challenges my ideas without disputing the intelligence behind them. I want a woman who, standing next to me, can make me feel like the most honored of loyal subjects before a queen. I want a woman who can seduce me, effortlessly, with one arch of her amber brow, with one quirk of her cream- puff lips. A woman who has no clue just how sexy she is.

Or maybe she does.

As she sits there, staring out the window, I wonder if she's aware that she keeps biting those swollen voluptuous lips. I wonder if she knows that the soft sighs she keeps emitting makes me want to drag her onto my lap and crush those plump lips beneath my own.

I nearly kissed her once before. If she hadn't nearly collapsed in my arms, we might have been lovers by now. God, the thought makes my blood pump faster than ever. Sadly, it all seems to be leaving my brain, delaying coherent thought. The book in my hands is nearly forgotten, yet my eyes continue to skip over the words. For all the attention I pay them, they could have been written in Sanskrit. I wonder if she ever thinks about that "almost kiss." How could she not? It is all I ever think about. We pretend as if it never happened, but in my head...ahh. In my head, it didn't end with a simple kiss. In my dreams, we tear the walls down. Sometimes, I catch her watching me. Those crystal blue eyes cut through the space between us like lasers, and all I want to do, all I can think of, is taking her, right then and there. I'd do it in an instant if I thought she would let me.

We are the best of friends. Partners. Mates, in more than one sense of the word. But not the way I'd like it to be, the way I need it to be. I have drowned myself inside her more times than I can count, but only in my head. I think she is afraid to ask for anything more. Yes, this woman of mine fears. I have seen absolute terror shake the tranquil serenity of her eyes more than once, because of me. Love and Death...I can't imagine two things Dana Scully fears more. Except, maybe, the truth. But considering what she has seen, what I have shown her and what she has bravely fought because of me, she has good reason. Anger is no stranger to her either, and I'm not ashamed to say that I cause a great deal of it. You cannot really blame me. I drag her to the ends of earth, only because I like having her by my side...and I occasionally leave her behind, because I want to keep her safe enough to be there in the future. I am not the kind of man to let her anger deter me. Sometimes, I deliberately provoke her just to watch those pretty eyes of hers flash.

She's not perfect, but she's about as close as I'm ever going to get. I said I wanted a real woman, and believe me, she's it.

As the sound of her heel, nervously tapping on the floor, finally reaches my fuzzy brain, I do the unthinkable...I place my hand on her firm thigh. God, the touch in like lightning up the length of my arm, sizzling and crackling, pooling like electricity in my groin. Ah, shit. Can she feel my fingers twitching? Does she know I'm having trouble breathing? Does she really think I was trying to comfort her, or does she know the truth...that I would do anything, give anything, just to touch her?

Doesn't she even notice? My palm feels so charged, I'm sure it will burn a hole right through her slacks. Oh, God. Now all I can think of is my hand on her naked flesh, my fingers drifting higher and higher, my flesh coming into contact with the mother of all infernos. Hot, humid, forbidden. Yeeesss. I force myself to look away, to focus on the printed words before me, but nothing can banish the images in my mind. Doesn't this affect her at all?

I don't want to move, I don't want to breathe. It is too good. Even this little bit of contact is almost more than I can bear. I try again to read my book, but I seem to have become dyslexic. My blood is singing in my veins. My slacks are too tight, and the sweater I'm wearing is unbelievably hot.

The way she invades my thoughts is becoming a nuisance. These days, I can rarely focus on my work. I find myself staring at her, remembering every little slope and curve of her naked body. Yes, I've seen her naked before...but not that way I would have wanted to. I didn't have a chance to linger. But I remember everything. That's the benefit of an eidetic memory...I can see Dana Scully naked anytime I want. But even clothed, she is a temptation. I'm constantly wondering just what she'd feel like, naked and writhing, below me. Would she fall still and stop breathing when she comes, or would she thrash and moan like a woman possessed?

Sadly, I'll never know.

But *he* knows, I'm almost sure of it. Ed Jerse knows what it is like to make love to my partner, to watch her expression contort in the throes of passion. At least I think he does. Whether she slept with the man or not makes little difference. She still gave him something she never gave me. A piece of her soul, a piece of her body--in the form of a tattoo. Forever branded by another man. Some would think she did it to punish me, and that might be true. But there is a far greater punishment that she doles out even now.

As I wrap my fingers tighter about her thigh, reaffirming the link, I know exactly why I hate Ed so much. Because when she let him touch her like this, she really meant it. She gave him every bit of her trust and passion, leaving me standing in the dust. She flirts with me, drives me wild with her playful innuendoes, believes in me when no one else in the world does, and has even shot me to save me from myself. But she's never let me love her. She's never let me inside. I don't just mean sex, though that's a part of it. God, even Eddie Van Blundht got inside of her soul quicker than I ever could.

Maybe I am just a loser.

I wish she'd look at me that way. Lose herself so completely in the moment that she'd forget to guard those precious walls. Give herself to me honestly, completely, branding a piece of her heart for me, forever. I wish she'd tell me she loves half as much as I love her.

I want a real woman.

I want a woman who is not afraid to shake the very foundation she stands on, to turn herself inside out, just to reveal whatever truth she hides. I want a woman who will have the faith that I will never desert her, never betray her, never give up fighting for her. I want a woman who will follow me into hell itself, if that is what I ask of her. I want a woman who will never compromise what she believes, who can make me see the justice of her ideals, and can make me want to argue just as fiercely in her defense.

I want a woman whose every touch, every expression, holds more precious value than Fort Knox. A woman who has no need for fancy words or reassuring sentiments, because her every action tells me just how much she cares.

I want a woman who knows me better than I know myself. Who can sense my mood without a word, and knows instantly just what to do to make me grin. I want a woman who can spark such rage and protectiveness that I'm willing to take on the world. A woman I am not afraid to be weak before. A woman who will wrap her arms around me and make me forget anything but her, soothing me with more gentle concern than I could ever deserve.

Sometimes, I imagine waking to feel her snuggled up beside me, her legs tangled with mine, as cozy as life-long lovers. I imagine wiping the tears from her eyes as we witness our grandchildren walking for the first time. Sometimes...I think too much.

After a while, I know I must return my hand to the arm rest. I nearly moan at the loss. Of her heat. Her warm curves beneath my flesh. I am suddenly so empty I can't stand it. I will her to move closer, to do something, anything, to let me know she didn't want the contact to end. And then, magically, she hears my thoughts. She nestles closer, shivering almost imperceptibly, placing her hand on my chest. I wrap my arm around her, so very thankful for the right to hold her. Without even thinking, I place as kiss to her hair and hear her sigh. Her hand, making slow circles over my sweater, is too sweet for words. The best of friends. She is what I need, what I want. What I have to have. The air I breathe. The woman I love...and she will never know.

I feel a low growl working its way up my throat with the smell of her hair, and I cannot stop myself from saying, "Hey, Scully, ever think about joining the Mile High Club?" She merely giggles, gifting me with a rare gem I will always treasure.

I want *this* woman. And maybe, if I'm lucky, she wants me too.

* * *

END.

Note: I cannot take full credit for the "registered as lethal weapons with the FBI" line. Although I have altered it, the original idea appeared in a magazine I read. No infringement intended...I just loved the concept and had to share it with others.

Comments appreciated: Isahunter@aol.com


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